A job
is an insidious creature;
especially if it’s a big affable job.
It’ll follow you home at night
and slip in behind you
when you open the door.
But it’ll be so quiet
you won’t even know it’s there,
and you never have to feed it,
because it gets its own.
It’ll wag its tail
and swallow your children when you look away.
But it grows so big
you don’t even notice
because the space they took is always filled.
When you don’t watch it,
it’ll crawl in bed
between you and your wife
and snap and growl at her,
but it’s so clever,
it’ll sound like you.
It’ll snap at her and lick you
and one night
in the middle of the dark,
you’ll roll over
and wrap an arm around her
and marvel at how furry she’s grown,
and shrug
and go back to sleep,
because it always grows bigger
and the space is always filled.
And then one day,
just before the last swallow,
you’ll look down
and see nothing but the fangs
closing over your eyes.
But the most surprising part
is that you’ll go back
to the place where you first met it
and stalk others like yourself
because its appetite never ceases
and it never dies.
©WILLIAM JOHN WATKINS (1970)
William John Watkins 